The Crystal Set
by Indigo Ziona
Summary: Four immortal companions reflect on their lives. They've each been through a lot of pain. Please r/r :)


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Disclaimer: After all the fuss over Harry Potter, I need to explain - magic features in this story. I made it up to keep the story going (ie. I don't want to promote it or anything :-) ). Happy reading folks.

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The Crystal Set

Four women sit around one table, playing a complicated game with intricate clay pieces on a board. They are middle-aged, at just the stage where beauty has just begun to give way, in their case, to cynicism. In all their travels, their long-standing tradition is to meet and play this game, carefully, in the dark lit only by candles, in the ruin that was a castle, on a bleak, deserted hill. They are middle-aged, but have lived an incredibly long time.

They ignore the cold. Each sits upright on a carved stool, each wears flowing clothes, and each a gold circlet. They are almost indistinguishable, except for tiny things about how they play.

One moves her pieces swiftly, with efficiency. There is a brisk order, and when she takes other pieces, she does not appear to relish it, merely continues as normal. It suggests that she does not willingly play this game.

Another is cool, tilting her head back to think at every move, and then shifting the piece with deliberation. She plays carefully, as if her long experience has taught her to savour every possibility, and examine every path that lies before her.

Another is less thoughtful, so it seems, jiggling her chosen piece in her hand and then giving it a meandering path to its final destination. Her playing labels her a careless player, who cares more to irritate the others by slowing the game down.

The last plays with ease. She plays quickly, having a strategy already in mind, and a seeming uninterest in the moves of the others. She, too, shows no enjoyment, but she pauses before taking each piece from an opponent, to glance at their face. There is malice about her.

The first spoke.

"Would anyone like to tell me why we still go on with this pointless ritual?"

"Hush," said the second. "Let us finish before your meaningless babble drives us to insanity."

"Or yours," the third observed, "About your miserable childhood and blind husband."

The fourth glanced at the first, and took her knight. "It is a tradition we swore we would follow. We _shall_ follow it, without bickering. It was part of the bargain."

They continued, until the first said, "It was all meaningless anyway. Immortality bought by the lies I created about how my stepmother wanted to kill me, or how your parents traded you off for a piece of lettuce, or a rose, or how a fairy helped you marry a prince. We bought immortality with lies. Why should we continue the game?"

"The lies were better than the miserable truth," the third said.

"Must we discuss this? We have a game to play," the second broke in, before the fourth said with finality, "Our royal friend has a point."

"We're _all royal_," the second retorted, but despite her vehemence, she knew what the fourth woman meant. The first was the only one who had been born a princess.

"She has a point," the fourth said again, "because a contract sealed with a lie does not deserve to be fulfilled. We each had a tale that would last as long as we did; it was preserved in the game and that is how we keep it going. But if our tales are lies, we have no life, only half a life."

"I knew it," the second hissed. "We pass before people like shadows. We are not true beings, only ideals. And that is why we do not truly exist."

"I am happy with my existence," the third said. "It is enough."

"It is _not_," the first said. "I would rather die than pass through this world invisible as I do. Just one day to feel the ground and taste the fruit and hear and see everything as it is, not muffled, and be heard and seen and felt! That would be worth more than ten thousand years more like this."

"I agree," said the second. Agreement was unusual. Usually they argued and debated, but this was the road the second had decided to take. They sat silent for a while.

"I do too," said the fourth at last, and that left the third floundering.

"Maybe I do," she said. "But what can we do about it?"

The fourth woman spoke first, as if this was another of her strategies already decided. "We can tell new stories, and seal them in the pieces. True stories."

"Will anyone want to hear them?"

"Maybe not. But perhaps we can achieve a short existence from the few that do."

"And the stories would be preserved in the game?" the second said.

"New pieces," the fourth said, and the second nodded. 

"I might have known."

"Might have known what?" the first asked with interest.

"That she had new pieces. I too have been considering the possibility of new stories. I had not, as yet, formed a plan, but the idea was in my head."

"Isn't it a risk?" the third said. "New stories, new pieces. We may kill ourselves."

"I for one," said the first, "Would be willing to try it. I feel little joy in my existence, the gamble for a new and better one would cost me little if I fail."

"I too," said the second. "A miserable childhood and a blind husband may be a trial, but being a mere shadow is simply torture."

"I do not mind it all that much," the third said. "But I have had a strange yearning to tell my story – my true story. Maybe that would be enough to pay back the gamble."

"Are we agreed?" the fourth asked. "We leave the game, and play a new one in which we shall seal our stories. I shall do the sealing; I have learned how. I will tell the last story. As our royal friend was the first to raise the objection, she should go first."

The first nodded her assent. Swiftly, and with and air of satisfaction, before any could object, she swept the pieces off the board. The fourth waved her hands over the board and there were new pieces where the clay ones had been, made of crystal. "Now," she said, "you may begin."

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*

My mother was a queen. She had gained the habit of superstition, as is usual for the young and insecure, and she believed she could practise magic, and mould the future to her liking. When she was with child, she did everything she could to make sure that her daughter satisfied her as an heir in her one concern and obsession. Beauty. She had very strict ideals about features, and in the end I only met one of them by my pale skin, and she named me in honour of it. After that, she despised me and would not speak to me. I represented to her the failings of her superstition, and was marred in her eyes. She would strike me, and send me into the dust and grime. I feared her with all my heart. At last, in her rage and madness, she ordered, without my father's permission, that I be left in the forest to die. She could not bear the sight of me. She did not mean to make any special measures that I be killed, preferring my inevitable death of my own helplessness, as I had had no experience of life outside the city in which the palace was situated. It was fairly certain that I would be dead in the morning.

She told me this order, assured me that I was too worthless to live. I believed her. But inside me something else awoke – that I would somehow prove her wrong. I became two people that day. One was my mother's daughter, meek and pathetic, an ugly, useless and worthless child. The other was the heir to my father, for the moment at least, and strong, and it was she who hated my mother. She was the one who had not accepted her death.

I was taken blindfolded to the forest, and deposited in only a thin dress. I determined to follow the carriage home, to tell my father of everything, but I could not keep up. Perhaps it was the worthless child holding me back. And so I decided I would at least carry on walking, until I died of cold, hunger or exhaustion. But I could not be worthless. And yet I so wanted to give up. A quick death with not much pain. How could I keep on? I had to try as I might.

After about a day I found myself on the edge of a wide field, land that had been cut with neat paths among the yellow stalks. I did not recognise the significance of this, until I met the reaper. He was tall, sun-beaten and wind-worn. I asked him if he knew where the palace was.

"To speak truly, I don't," he said. "In a city somewhere, they say. I have never been there or seen it in all my life."

He stared at me, dirty and unkempt in my dress. I said, my voice breaking, "Do you know of somewhere I can eat?"

"You'll have to ask the landlords. Seven brothers in one house. Follow this path straight on."

He dismissed me, and I struggled onwards in the dimming light. After long last, I found the house. I t was large and spacious, with seven ponies in the adjoining field and strange and small front door I would have to stoop to get through. I tentatively knocked.

The man who answered it had no trouble with the small door, for he was small himself and looked like a fully-grown man who had been squashed to a child's height. He growled at me.

"What do you want? If it's work, we got none, if it's food, you're having none and there's no two ways about it."

Intimidated, I squeaked. "Is your master at home?"

"There's no masters but me and my brothers. Now scram!"

"Please sir, I haven't eaten since yesterday…"

"Be off with you!"

"Oh give her something," another voice said, irritably. "I daresay we can do something with her. There's always women's work to be done."

The man at the door grunted, and opened it further to allow me in. He spoke no more to me, considering the mere act of letting me in service enough. 

"Well!" said yet another voice. "Don't just stand there! If you must eat, then you must. Follow me."

Another squat man appeared in front of me, and beckoned me. He then marched off without looking at me, or saying anything more. Not knowing what else I could do, I followed him.

He took me to a small kitchen, and produced some bread for me to eat. He shifted around, shuffling on those over-sized feet, into a pantry from where he took some meat on a plate and some fruit. He handed them to me.

"That should suit you." He looked me up and down at last, evaluating my appearance with neither pleasure nor distaste, but an efficient practicality. "Once you've eaten," he said, "You may sleep on one of the straw mattresses in the attic. We will talk in the morning."

He left then, leaving me in that room alone. At first I ate hungrily, not caring particularly, but after a while I realised numbly the strange predicament I was in. I had been abandoned to die by my mother, and now I did not know my way back to the palace, and neither was I sure I wanted to go. But then, there was the current situation. I had been mistaken for a common beggar by one of the seven brothers. Another seemed to assume that I was willing to work for them. The third was willing to feed me, but obviously had no patience with me. I would get food here, but be forced to work. Maybe it would be better than living with my mother. Maybe it would be worse, and I would find myself no longer even a princess. But then I vaguely considered something else. I had made it from the forest to here. I could make it further, if need be. I had other options; if I wanted to leave, I could at any time. That was why I decided to stay. Maybe that was just an excuse to myself; to make myself feel better about taking the easiest choice at the moment. However, in terms of realising my own power, I was very young indeed. I had only begun to discover that I was capable of things.

Of the seven brothers, the one I liked best was the second youngest. I hadn't met him on that first day, but he was the one who worked out what I should do – more than all the others he seemed to care about my fate. Even so, no one asked me who I was or where I had come from. To hide my identity, I used my middle name. I became friends with the second youngest brother, and we addressed each other by our given names. His name was Gregory.

Most of the others were fairly dismissive of me and I was occasionally referred to as 'Gregory's pet' or 'Gregory's woman'. It wasn't that there was anything sexual between us – Gregory seemed more like the brother I'd never had. In time, as I learned, under his guidance, to clean pots and pans, to cook, to tend the ponies, and to clean the house, I gained confidence. I was still very much used to being the underling, so that didn't trouble me, but I no longer felt the ugly and pathetic child who was my mother's daughter. And isolated away in that house, clean and with enough to eat, hearing nothing of life at the royal court, I could easily forget her.

Everything would have gone well if the eldest brother, Peter, had not been in the service of the king. For the most part, Peter merely sent news reports to my father on his observations in that part of the land, on any suspicious activity and at scent of any revolt. He acted like a spy within the king's own land. However, one day he was summoned to the palace, and decided that he would need a servant. I was a good worker by then, so he summoned me, and asked for Gregory as well. As if he was the tamer of this wild animal. I expressed my nervousness, but Gregory just said, "It'll be good for a fine woman like you to see the city. It's natural to be nervous, but once you see it, you'll have the time of your life."

He had high expectations for me. He thought the world of me. I couldn't disappoint him, and yet I paced up and down my bedroom the night before we left, wondering whether to go to Gregory and tell him everything. But no, I told myself. He'd never believe me. He'd think it was just a silly story I was making up so I didn't have to go.

He wouldn't make me go – I knew that. But I couldn't bear him to think pitiably of me when he was the only one who had faith in me. I decided that I would stay away from the king as much as possible. And as for my mother, if I saw her I would put on a country brogue and call her 'your Majesty'.

We set out the next day, and Peter continued to remark irritably that I was a terrible distraction with my nervous twitching. Gregory smiled encouragingly, and said nice words, but they didn't help. He had no idea what I was up against.

At the palace, Gregory and I were sent to rooms by servants, none of whom I recognised. Thankfully, only Peter was allowed to see the king. I was put in strange servant's quarters – it was disturbing that in my old home I should feel out of place in rooms for servants far grander than my straw mattress in the attic, and yet feel that the room was too plain, not too decorated. Yet to stay away from my mother I would do anything. I found myself shaking as I unpacked my luggage, and in the act, found that somehow, an item belonging to the youngest brother had fallen in with my clothes. It was a bottle, the stopper engraved with the brothers' family insignia, and the liquid contained within of a deadly hue. It was poison.

It's difficult to explain why I did it, but I spent that night lying awake clutching the small bottle to me like a talisman for the demons spawning within. Bitter thoughts were growing in my heart like the weeds that strangle good crop. They engulfed me – fear turned to pure hatred. I finally realised with clarity that I was not worthless and powerless. All that she had done to me was evil – it was not that I was evil. In some kind of delirium, I padded barefoot to the kitchens in the dark, still clutching that bottle of poison meant for vermin. It had become a symbol for my change – I had distilled all my ill feelings from vagary into one deadly lust for death.

It was getting close to dawn. People were moving in the kitchens, a whispered discussion taking place. I stayed in the shadows. I could see two profiles by candlelight.

"What? Awake so early?"

"I could ask the same of you, sir."

"The night air is hot and close. What do the guests desire in the morning?"

"Fresh cooked fish for the shrunken men. Have you the fruit the queen would desire?

"A morning apple for the queen," the other said. "Fresh picked. The first thing she will eat."

"Well chosen," was the response. "This will surely please her."

They moved away, and I approached the apple, the poison in hand – I would not do it. I could not do it, there was too much at stake. For the moment, I held the scene so vividly in my head – a fresh apple for my mother, and deadly poison in my hand. It was darkly and deliciously tempting. I left after doing nothing.

I returned to dress, but could not stay in that room, as if all my thoughts that were bursting in my head could not fit into that one tiny space of a room. Instead, I sat on the staircase, watching the light fill the large backrooms of the palace. Discreetly, at what I instinctively knew to be the right hour, I began the walk to the royal bedrooms. My father was not in the room, and I could only see the top of the head my mother, the rest of her covered up by the coverlet. Crankily she seemed to have gone back to sleep after a rude awakening, such was the dishevelment of her eiderdown. The apple was cut on a fine bone china plate, and I had the poison in my hand. I wanted to do it, and I did, taking a last glance at the tiny fraction of my mother that I could see in her sleepy haze, and putting a single drop on one slice of apple. It would suffice. Then I left, suddenly overcome by the fear of discovery. I did not notice myself dropping the bottle as I hurried away.

I would have had it end there – simply knowing that she was dead, and being able to return back to my straw mattress and being Gregory's pet. It is inevitable that such a deadly action could not have such mediocre consequences.

The death of the queen caused a commotion in the staff. Although they would not disclose information as to their agitation, I knew with sickly dread why they did what they did. Next I heard, both Gregory and Peter were locked up, the bottle discovered. My only thought was of escape – I had no idea where I would go. And as I hurried out, I charged straight into my father.

He stopped me, and looked over me. In his tearful eyes I spotted the dreaded recognition. Oh, that he could question me and then let me go! But the next I knew he was saying my name, and holding me to him. And telling me that my mother killed herself two weeks after I had disappeared. The woman I had killed was my stepmother, whom my father loved passionately. My crime was made doubly worse by my ignorance.

He never knew, I never told him, and I never saved my only friend from the charge brought about by my guilt. Being with my father, even without my mother, was a joyless torture. The knowledge of what I had done gradually ate away at my soul. When at last I was married, I felt released to the kind of servitude a princess has. That is why I tell this story – because I know what it is to lose what you had barely begun to be thankful for. And I am now just a shadow – to return to walk again in a true world would be luxury simply because I could appreciate it now. I did not appreciate friendship when I found it; I did not appreciate safety and isolation when I had it. Instead I paid a debt of hatred.

With her last words, the first woman moved a piece. Her first move.

"May I ask you a question?" the second asked, as she took her move. The first nodded – she continued. "Would you have regretted it if you had really killed your mother?"

"A strange question," the first observed. "Are you asking me if I think killing her would have been wrong, or simply whether I would have felt guilty?"

"Answer both," said the third woman, rather sardonically. "We have plenty of time."

"Killing my mother would have been wrong," said the first. "But it has taken years to realise that. I cannot say whether I would have felt guilty or not."

"Why would it have been wrong?" asked the fourth. "She intended to kill you after all, and your manner of execution was painless compared to hers."

"Just the remark I'd expect from you," said the third woman, but the first woman ignored her, and stared strongly into the fourth's eyes.

She said, in a low, strained voice, "What right have we to denounce evil, and then use evil to punish evil? She bred that hatred in me. And it killed her, killed my stepmother and all but killed me. Hatred is never killed by killing others. It thrives on the ending of human life."

The fourth woman nodded. "I am sorry if I offended you – I merely wanted to hear your reasoning. We all know about abuse, and we all understand evil. It interests me to know how it should be dealt with."

"We all escaped evil," said the second woman.

"We all created it," disagreed the third, "Evil breeds evil."

"Maybe so," said the fourth. "But for now I should be interested to hear the story of the miserable childhood and blind husband. Would you care to begin?"

The second woman moved her first piece. "I shall."

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*

My parents were indeed cruel. They believe that their suffering was to be shared and their joy to be contained. They inflicted their pain upon me. Unlike the Princess, I was not told in words that I was worthless and weak; instead, they demonstrated it with their actions. They did not care for me – I was simply an animal to them, to be treated however they desired.

I was six years old when I first met the old woman who lived alone in the cottage at the end of the village. They said she was a witch – but that very suspicion made them afraid of her. They left her alone.

I met the old woman through absurd circumstances. I'd upset a large milk jug whilst my parents were away. The consequences I imagined of this made me more afraid than I could be of death. And I ran, terrified, through the village, until I stumbled accidentally into the home of the old woman.

I recognised her immediately as the witch, the woman who held Satan's grip over the village and terrified us all. Like a stunned rabbit, I stayed perfectly still, fear chilling my very bones. She stared back at me, and then said, softly, "Don't be afraid."

"Y-you're a witch," I stammered back.

"I am an old woman," she replied. "My legs have trouble getting to church some Sundays, and that's what I'll tell anyone who asks. No-one does ask, my pretty, and that may be why they believe Satan to be upon me."

She moved a chair towards me, and sat upon it. I shivered as her dim eyes and withered hands gently examined me. "I know whose child you are," she said. "I see them treating you worse than I'd treat a rat. Your parents are evil people."

This proved she was of the Devil. I knew my parents were good.

"They're not," I said, still mortally afraid.

"Well," she conceded. "I can't pretend to know everything. They're not how I understand good. They're ill at heart. Drink some milk."

It made me think guiltily of the milk jug – but I drank thirstily.

My parents soon arrived, with a stick to beat me with. The old woman arose, and leaned on a stick. "Leave her alone – I have a proposition for you." She spoke clearly, without emotion.

"We'll buy nothing from you, witch," my father pronounced.

The old woman brushed this off, as if he had simply addressed her by her proper name. She said, "I'll sell you nothing, but I would like to buy the girl from you."

"You'd like her to be your familiar," my father replied in a sneer, but the old woman remained strong against the insult. "No, good sir, I am no witch. I would like this girl to be my daughter."

There was silence. I could not comprehend what old woman had just proposed – I had never thought that it would be possible to trade parents, and I was frightened of coming under Satan's grip.

My father said, "How much are you willing to pay?"

They haggled over the price. Eventually, my father was satisfied, and he and my mother disappeared for good.

I remained silent whilst the old woman brushed my hair, and only spoke to give her my name. She prepared a place for me to sleep, gave me some food to eat, and fed her animals. Then she wrapped me up in her cloak, as it was becoming cold.

"Please don't be afraid of me," she urged. "I am God's servant as much as anyone else."

That satisfied me. Surely a demon could not speak the name of God. Maybe that was a little skewed logic, but it contented me long enough to discover I was truly safe.

She told me her name, then added, "Since we are to be living together awhile, I'd like you to call me Grandam."

Like the Princess, I was given space to feel safe. It was difficult to trust her – not because I had believed her to be a witch, but more because, conversely, I believed her to be my parent. Parents were fearsome creatures whereas witches were merely vague evils that tiptoed around the edges of my consciousness. It was easy to believe that Grandam would not brew potions or cast spells, but it was much harder to believe that she would not beat me soundly for my mistakes. But as she held me close whilst I cried over nightmares, I found that I had suddenly discovered love.

Grandam loved me. Inexplicably, she had observed me not to be the negligent bane of my parents' lives, but someone upon whom she could lavish the love laid to waste by so many years of loneliness. Her cottage was more than a cottage to me. It was a strong tower that kept me away from the badness of the world.

It should have stayed that way. Since then, I have spent many a night yearning for those simple times, just Grandam and me again.

I grew up. It was inevitable – I must turn into a woman from a girl at some point. Grandam had remained unharmed all those years by the witch-hunters – they were more afraid of her than she of them. She was getting older, true, but I was a good child, and I would do all I could for her. Then one day I stepped out of the cottage to observe a man dressed in finery mounted on a horse with a coat so fine it glimmered in the sunlight. He was followed by guards, preceded by fanfares and this is how I learned he was a prince. He was also the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. This is how obsession set in. I felt I was floating wherever I went – every face I saw failed to satisfy me because it was not his face. When I told Grandam of the strange feeling flowing up inside me, she simply laughed gently, and said, "It will pass soon enough."

It didn't pass. I spent nights tossing and turning and dreaming of him. I wandered around in a permanent daze… I loved him, I yearned to get close to him. I adored everything about him – his figure, his voice, his soft, dark hair, his proud, straight nose, his narrow, red lips, and his shining blue eyes. Although I so rarely saw him, I memorised his features as every day he rode from the castle, through the village, and off to hunt in the forest. All day I would work with the sole motivation that the moving on of time brought me closer to when I could see him again for the briefest of moments.

One day, the yearning overtook me. I was so desperate to see the prince that I suddenly determined to find him, wherever he might be, and before I even realised what I was doing, I was running away from the cottage and towards the woods to search him out. I found him all too easily, going straight into his view before I had time to stop myself and simply watch from afar.

He was seated with a companion, eating some meat. He looked up at my arrival, and observed me with amusement.

"And where might you be going, pretty maid?" he asked me, with a touch of irony.

I had not the words to explain my rashness. I simply blushed. He beckoned.

When I had moved closer, he endeavoured to discover everything he could about me – he learned my name, where I lived, that I lived with my grandam. Although I did not tell him about my parents, he learned my favourite wild flower, he learned that I knew nothing of royalty or how to treat them, much to his great amusement. When at last he decided to move on, he stood up, kissed my hand, and told me to be back again the next day.

And what encouragement that was! My one concern was the lies I had to tell Grandam – for some reason I did not feel I should tell her about my meeting with the prince – but I would tell her soon enough. The prince and I met everyday in that same place. My naïveté made him smile, and that smile was the most stunning thing I had ever seen in my life. His iridescent eyes sparkled like jewels and his whole face became sunny. Mostly, he talked. He told me of his valour, informed me of his great strength, the beasts and men he had killed, the crusades he had undertaken. He told me about the tournaments he had won against men twice as tall. They enchanted me more than the tales Grandam told me by the fire each night. And he told me that I was the most beautiful girl he had ever known, that my figure was like that of a marble statue, how my hair was flaxen and my blue eyes like forget-me-nots and my legs like willow branches. How my voice sounded like the very harps of angels. And one day, he told me that compared to all the princesses he had known, I was like a tulip beside dandelions, and that I was only one who truly appreciated his great achievements. He kept a lock of my hair.

One day, I did not see him, or the next, or the one after that. I hid my bewildered sadness from Grandam, and mulled over it by myself. The next I knew, important looking men were marching through the village. I hid myself behind bushes nearby to hear what they were saying and listened with horror. The prince was ill, and they suspected a witch was involved. I was the most immediate suspect, but the prince had vowed that I must be under some demonic influence. And, of course, that all came down to one person – Grandam. They were coming to take Grandam as a witch at last.

I knew I should do something – I should tell them they were wrong, I should warn Grandam that they were coming. But it was all my fault! From a distance I watched the only one who ever loved me led out of the cottage. She remained dignified, she denounced their claims. I crouched down and closed my eyes, hid my head. I do not know how long I stayed there. I crawled out when it was dark, back to the deserted and vandalised cottage, and slept under my rug, exhausted.

It was the next day that they came to find me – the prince was now well, but Grandam, I learned, was dead. She had not been burned as a witch, rather, she had failed to float when they threw her into the lake. There was some debate as to whether this proved she was not a witch, and people generally seemed relieved to be rid of her regardless. I felt completely numb inside, too numb even to cry. When the prince summoned me to him, I went, feeling that at least I could be with one of the people I loved.

It did not take me very long to discover the nature of his exaggerations. He was blinded in a tournament he was obviously losing, and he had already become to be cold towards me. After being blinded, he was so bitter that he often said it gave me no use at all – he could have married an ugly princess and still had riches and status, of a kind, even if it had been harder to enjoy. He believed that a beautiful, poor wife when blind amounts to nothing. My love for him grew cold, too, and I almost felt I agreed.

I managed to care for him after all those years, but I never forgave myself my rashness. Every comfort seemed empty without the simple love I had learned from Grandam. I spent those years with him reliving our courtship in my head, choosing other ways to turn which would have given me happiness. It was too late.

Silence washed around the four players like an icy breeze. The second woman's eyes were down, her forehead in a frown. Each had a serious expression – the third woman looked piercingly at the rest before she eventually broke the silence.

"The prince sounds like a detestable character." She said it disapprovingly, with disgust, even.

"A good story," observed the fourth, ignoring the second completely. "Nicely told."

The first woman looked to the second with softened eyes. Her hand reached out and touched the other's – a ghost against a ghost, but still the other felt it. She looked up in surprise. Touching was something they only did to the pieces of the game. The first looked away – the brief moment of contact was gone. And then she said, "I envy you that love."

There was more silence. The third said coldly, "If you're referring to her husband, the correct term is lust."

The fourth said, "Do you wish to tell us that you have never experienced that blind passion for a man before you were old enough to know what it truly was?"

"I thought over that affection a little more fully."

The second said quietly, "And you have never been rash?"

The third woman gritted her teeth. Her whole face contorted as she took her first move. It looked as if some spirit were trying to get out and she was struggling with all her might to hold it in. A tear revealed itself. The fourth woman looked at her. "Will you tell your story now?" she asked.

"I will."

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*

I too fell in love with a prince. My father was a merchant who brought to shore goods of quality highly valued by the royal family. The king had only one son – and he was hideously deformed. Not that this mattered – on my family's many visits to the palace, this same prince was the one who protected me from the relentless teasing of my sisters. They were a brutish bunch, most of all the eldest who had started this trend of tormenting the younger ones, until I was the one who suffered all their grievances. On those trips the prince and I would play together, run in the fields, sneak to forbidden places in the palace; but we most liked to hide in the rose garden and play riddles.

The rules were as follows – we would each tell riddles to the other in turns, and if one of us couldn't guess the other's riddle, they had to perform a task before the other would give them an answer. In this way, we passed many an hour. That garden became the safe haven away from the heckling of my sisters. As children the prince and I enjoyed each other's company surrounded by those roses, with their silken soft petals of so many colours. Hideous though that prince was, I caught on to his wit and wisdom, but most of all to his gentleness and care I saw in so few people.

When I was eighteen, the last maiden daughter of my father, I had not seen the prince for several months. Whilst the departure of my sisters had caused some relief, my days were oddly empty, and I wished to at least have the dubious company of my youngest sister who sometimes had time for me but was mostly interested in courting men. All my sisters had been repulsed by the prince and his appearance – and yet in those empty months, I wished for his company most of all.

The king had died, and the prince became the new king; and it was he who requested the presence of my father and his honourable family once again. I wandered the familiar palace alone, having only seen the new king briefly when he had welcomed my father and I, then called the servants to shows us to our rooms. Since then, I had been allowed to take my solitary explorations through those magnificent grounds.

Inevitably, I strayed again to the rose gardens – we had visited them less and less over the years, as my maiden sisters became fewer and he more involved with affairs of state. I found myself once again enveloped in the bewitching perfume of those beautiful flowers, but the most welcome sight of all was my prince among them.

His face lit up, and he greeted me with a familiar and yet shy manner, as if our few months apart and his crown had somehow changed the relationship between us in a way to which he was not used. We talked over so many meetings shared in this place as children, over the childish riddles we had invented. Presently, he said, "I have a new riddle for you. Would you accept my challenge?"

I laughed at this. "Of course, your majesty."

His eyes danced at my ironic address. He said, "What is the most valuable treasure in all the palace and all the palace grounds?"

"That is a little difficult," I replied, for it was, as all good riddles should be.

He chuckled. "Though I shouldn't, I'll give you three guesses."

The familiar joy of the riddle game washed over me. I loved the deliciousness of it; I picked my three guesses straightaway in my head, and ordered them with the most likely guess last. I wanted to savour the game.

I picked the most obvious answer first.

"The crown."

"Ah," he said. "That symbol of state. Men make something from gold and in their arrogance call it beautiful and important. As a matter of fact, it is neither; merely a heavy, gaudy lump of metal I must wear on special occasions. No."

This answer did not surprise me – as I had suspected, he wasn't using common values.

"The crown," he continued, "is a vain and pointless ornament. I could construct a counterfeit of polished brass and no one would know because they all hold it in too much awe to examine it closely."

I pretended to think. "So the answer does not lie in market prices."

He smiled shrewdly. "What true worth does? Give a poor family a crown – the vile gaudiness and uselessness of it would lead them to discard it once its vainglory had lost its novelty."

"May I take my second guess?"

His eyes twinkled. "Yes, you may."

"The marble floor."

He raised his eyebrows and his eyes wandered as he thought about this answer. He said, "Beauty and use in it. However my feet feel more comfortable in a meadow, and their beauty surpasses that marble a thousand times."

"So there is personal preference," I said.

He answer with a false air of pompousness, "Surely my preference speaks for all, as king."

"Oh, really?" I answered teasingly. "And should all prefer to live in palaces?"

He laughed. "I would rather all preferred cottages – in any case, I would not pay the most to attain my floor of marble."

I took his hand, and felt its rough skin and gentle touch. I gave my third guess – the answer I had known all along.

"The roses."

He took a long breath, smelling that perfume. He said, "If I had to sell the crown, all my gold, all my fine clothes and wear sackcloth, the marble floor, the carved stone walls, the chandeliers, or even my food and live on rosehip, if only to keep the pleasure of my roses, I would. They grow from dirt and care not if it is laced with gold dust, and take the honest gifts of the soil instead of judging by breeding, appearance, wisdom or wealth. They are more beautiful than the finest silks, and give the bees fine nectar to drink."

I thought, and said teasingly, "Tell me, what would a poor family do with roses?"

He levelled to my challenge with the same light-hearted attitude. "Grow them around their houses, and think their home a palace more rich than one of pure gold." As he said it, he was smiling, showing all his shiny white teeth. "All their neighbours might have the seeds, and all might live in palaces. A rose is more generous than that cold yellow metal, and worth many times more. However" – he looked right at me – " the roses are not the most valuable treasure in this palace."

I opened my eyes wide. "They are not? Then what is?"

He smiled impishly at having caught me out. He said, "Remember the rules. You must do my task before I tell you."

I feigned indignation – in truth I was all the more happy for being caught out.

"And what is your task?"

He frowned momentarily. Then said, "Tell me a story."

I thought for a minute… Then I remembered something.

"Many years ago, when I was a small child, my father expected to secure a large amount of money for spices he was buying from the East. Before he left for that voyage, he asked all his daughters what we would like when he was rich. Each of my sisters conjured up the most wildly expensive thing they could imagine: dresses woven from gold and silver, black ponies with shining ebony coats, rings, necklaces, circlets, rubies, emeralds, diamonds. When it came to my turn, I searched my mind for something that seemed to me more beautiful and glamorous than all those things, and at last settled on a flower – a rose. My sisters sneered at this choice, whilst my father simply smiled before he kissed me goodbye.

When he came back, I was sleeping. My other sisters heard how his ship had been wrecked, the spices destroyed. No fine clothes, ponies or jewels were coming, and so I heard, the house rang with my sisters' lamenting. I did not hear these troubles, nor know of them until much later, for when I woke up, beside me was a vase in which was blooming a beautiful rose."

He glimmered at this fitting story. "And now the answer must be yours."

He reached up, and cut a rose straight from its branch. He said, "Not just this rose, but all my roses, and all I have, I would sacrifice for the most valuable treasure."

He removed the thorns, took my hands and placed the rose in them.

I looked at the flower in my hands in a daze, and understood the answer to the riddle. To my surprise, despite the deep joy flowing through me, tears streamed from my eyes. We held each other close, and I felt his soft lips kissing those tears away. We were married soon after.

Father was pleased, even though he, like so many, regarded my husband with a certain fear. He looked like a beast – a huge, ravenous manbeast ready to strike. My father never saw the man I saw – the gentle loving man, who held me close and out of harm's way. I soon discovered that many thought I had married him for the status of queen, not because I loved him as my own flesh, because I adored him and to me his skin was as sweet smelling and soft as the petals of a rose. I did not mind what the many thought, only what he thought. Our first years together were happy and harmonious, beautiful in every respect. We discussed every problem of state, and brushed off every cynical glare and questioning remark nobles and royals cast in our direction. 

But somehow, things changed. They did not change like the crumbling of the house of lust, which has no foundations. Our foundations were strong, but they were under attack, the strength of our love was being weakened. My husband spent so much time away, in conferences and meetings. The way people often treated him made me angry, but, our kingdom being a powerful one, people had to listen to him. He would go alone, and so that I would not have to suffer the cold royal bed alone, I would sleep in a small room with a crystal ceiling that in the spring would be showered with blossom, and outside I could see the rose garden. This would comfort me until he returned.

But sometimes he stayed away so long… his ministers and clerks and chamberlains could see to the nation but they were dull company. Foreign queens and princesses would come but they would ask me impertinent questions about my husband and regard him with fascinated horror and revulsion, so much so that I began to dread their company and tried to satisfy myself alone. I did not tell him my troubles. Foreign wars were concerning him, and revolts, and plagues… I had to stay strong for him, I stayed with him through entire nights when he was home and worked with him to resolve the problems in the world. We never resolved our own problems. We forgot the passion with which we loved each other, we never paid mind to the sadness that separated us.

Then things were getting better – they were getting better outside but we had got out of the habit of being good to each other. I began to be desperately lonely, longing for the friendship I saw between other women of the court who shared all their secrets. Somewhere deep inside me, I began to blame my husband that I never knew that friendship, that companionship between women I had first seen my sisters sharing with each other but never with me. Where did my secrets go? Who would collect my tears, who would share my laughter?

One evening he turned to me and said, "My dear, you are growing so pale. What can make you rosy again?"

I looked to him with a tortured expression, I said, "My husband, even the maidservants are less lonely than I am."

He did not pretend that he had believed me to be happy. Instead, he said, "My dear, what can be done about it?"

"Nothing can be done, my husband. All the women view me as a pitiful victim, or as eccentric and aloof, and so they withdraw from me."

"And you wish for their friendship?"

"I wish to be valued as a woman… I wish to be no longer the solitary queen who is cast out, who spends long days alone in the gardens like a woman three times her age." I struggled not to weep. "I am so cut off."

He touched me gently. "Why are you so cut off?" He spoke softly, painfully, as if he already knew the answer and dreaded it.

I wept, he held me close but did not kiss the tears from my eyes, but instead let them fall onto his fine clothes. I pushed back, I stood free from his arms.

"They are afraid of you. They call you beast."

He kissed my forehead, his own eyes wet, and walked away. I sat down, and let the tears come. I cried for the innocent games in the rose garden. I cried for friends and sisters who had never been friends and sisters. I cried for the love I had had to sacrifice for, and I cried for the distance in the eyes of the man I had thought would make me happy eternally. Somehow, I cried myself to sleep in that chair.

When I awoke, it was morning and I was in the small bed staring up at the crystal roof. The sun sparkled overhead, the sky a deep dreamy blue, and yet somehow my heart could not leap for joy with them. The smell of roses was stronger this morning, and as I sat up I saw the reason – a multitude of the flowers was in a vase beside my bed. Surely this was a good sign? But why was I in that bed, where I slept when my husband was away? Beside the flowers was a letter written elegantly and I knew they were his words. I read them.

My darling,

I would give the gold, the silver, the crystal chandeliers, the fine silks and velvets, the marble, the gardens, the statues and even the roses for the most valuable treasure in the palace. I would sacrifice all that I own for the sake of the most valuable treasure.

You are to me worth all these things, and your happiness is worth more than everything I have gained. My dear, in the end I was the last obstacle blocking your happiness. In my selfishness, I neglected you. I will no longer let this hurt you. Everything in this palace is yours. I have left and I took only travelling clothes with me. The only roses I picked are in front of you now.

__

Suddenly, the world became black. With my words, my ridiculous words, my selfishness, my lovelessness, I had driven away the only one who still loved me. What joy can there be after that? I shut myself into dark rooms and had food brought to me. I emerged rarely, and despised the sight of every human being who was not he. And I never saw him again.

"Is this why wandering the world a shadow satisfies you?" the second woman asked. She did not speak with unkindness.

The third woman said, "Nothing satisfies me. I drove away the one who loved me, and in turn, the one who needed me most. But to be a shadow is safer than to be flesh and blood with people who can hurt you."

The first woman said softly, "And do you despise our company?"

"I bore your company… in part we had shared the same trials."

"We had indeed," said the fourth. "Perhaps that company was a little more comforting in the early days?"

"I believe I am not the only one who would like to hear your story now," the third woman said, and the other two nodded in agreement.

"Speak then," said the first. "And complete the circle."

__

*

I'll keep my story brief, and not let its details bore you. I was the one natural child of my father, and the sole heir to his house, and should have become the sole owner of it when he died. This was not to be as like all of us I lived with a several bullies, namely my stepmother and stepsisters. At first, I accepted this because it was better to be a servant than to fight and lose. But as the days went on, I became more and more a servant and that made me one of a community of servants. I became friends with the cook, the groom and the butler. In being banished from that upper, visible world, I became an automatic member of the underworld. The staff being who they were, this change was bearable, and having been reduced in such a way I found a kind of escape in their friendship, despite all the work I had to do. And that gave me a will to fight back.

It was in this way I learned a number of secrets my stepfamily did not want me to know: firstly, that they were living on the poor remains of a diminishing fortune; secondly, that the house and everything in it except for the lives of my stepfamily and the clothes they wore were mine; thirdly, that the rest of my father's fortune had been hidden at his request and their mysterious behaviour of late had been in order to discover where it lay. Fourthly, I discovered the secret they themselves did not know – that the butler knew where it was.

The reason for my father's bizarre last wishes lay somewhat in his rather playful nature, and possibly somewhat in his muddy perception that perhaps my stepmother's treatment of me in public lacked sincerity. Whilst I cursed his inaction with regard to the problem of these bullies, I blessed his prudence, and laughed myself with the thought of all the playful things I could do in secret with the money that was mine. The only problem being that the butler had vowed to stay silent as to the location of this treasure until I was eighteen. And that was a blow.

In any case, my further acceptance of the servants as a truer family than those trollops led me to lead a bearable life in the underground. When not being terrorised and mistreated by those women, I was a proud member of a small community founded on mutual respect, and that suited me as much as I could wish it would. I will try to say little as to the subject of my stepfamily – suffice it to say, they brought me no happiness and they were generous with pain.

By the time I reached eighteen, I had already conjured up so many plans I could have spent my father's fortune twenty times over, and waiting for it had tortured me. Even so, I was glad of the time to consider which of my plans, ranging from the most fantastical to the most practical, I would execute. I dismissed those from both ends of the spectrum. Whilst I relished the idea of getting the monsters out of my house, I did not want to do this before I played with them and satisfied myself that I had finally paid them back for all their oppression they had given me so freely over the years. I also did not want to throw away my father's fortune as quickly as I had gained it.

My first plan for the money involved a little social event I had not been able to attend due to my descent into servitude. It was a ball, reserved for the élite, of which we were still considered members, and I, along with my stepmother and stepsisters, was invited. Such functions had happened before, I knew, and they found it pleasant to mock the very idea of my attending them. With the pretence of an outing for much needed household items, I lovingly strolled forth to purchase the most beautiful dress I had ever seen. It was all the more so because I did not see it as a dress until those materials I myself had chosen were abroad my slightly too slender frame. Perhaps my hands were not as smooth as they might be, perhaps my complexion not so milky white, but much of this I dealt with in a jovial spirit on the night of the ball. I hired a coach, I applied such a multitude of cosmetics to my face that I had only been allowed to apply to the faces of my vain stepsisters, I dealt with the many ties of my dress with only the help of the cook, my sole confidante in such matters, and all without the knowledge of my stepfamily, who had departed in the morning in order to spend a day primping and preening in comfort so they would have a shorter journey to the ball after preparing.

I could have no such luxury, but this did not daunt me. My first ball and scarcely did it matter that I would have to leave early, because I did not want to give the coachmen a long journey at such a ridiculous hour. I was going to enjoy myself, and it would be the first time in years.

I strutted in a mysterious beauty, for those who had known my father barely knew me, and those who did know me did not recognise me, although the only ones in that latter group were those harpies I somewhat generously call my stepfamily. It was oddly pleasing how shabby they looked compared to my new gown, my jewels that had once been my mother's, and my fine slippers. Where men politely took my stepsisters' hands to dance, I found hordes vying for my attention and once I had overcome the shock of so much admiration coming my way, I enjoyed basking in their adoration and satisfied myself that, all else aside, I was much prettier than my stepsisters.

Then an interesting little predicament befell me – a little while after the ball I discovered the most interesting of things. I had caught my slipper on the step in my hurry to leave, and not bothered about picking it up, as I could easily buy another pair. Only a romantic soul, thinking to win me once and for all, had picked up the slipper and decided to find me. And of course, in a delicious coincidence I could not have planned, that romantic soul was a prince.

I did not particularly care for the prince's plan – ah, it is so familiar now. He wanted every maiden who had attended the ball to try on the slipper. A ridiculous notion and I was not particularly concerned with whether he succeeded in finding me. I was already pre-occupied with forming more plans for the revenge on my sisters. Plans more complex than my frivolous idea of the ball. Firecrackers in their wardrobes, mice in their beds – revenge was coming. The prince's representatives – for romantic though he was, he did not see the point of personally collecting his bride – the very idea! – came and left our house, and naturally I did not try on the slipper, for they scarcely recognised that I existed. And I didn't care at all, just carried on with my cleaning and my schemes.

The even more fascinating thing was, that persistent prince still had not found a bride to satisfy him. He checked all the invitations again, and found a discrepancy – there appeared to be four women in one house, not the three who were originally encountered. So he rode his own horse the long journey, and what a sight it was, to see my stepmother fawn over him.

"Madam," he began. 'You know of my great search for the woman who stole my heart at the ball.'

I tried not to laugh, but it was difficult.

"I see that four noble women live here, and yet only your two daughters tried on the slipper. You must be the duchess, but who is Lilith?"

"Lilith is dead," my stepmother said, ingratiatingly, believing I could not dare intervene.

"I wish she were," I replied, louder than I had intended.

The prince ignored the trollop and looked at me. I coolly returned his gaze. He registered a faint glimmer of recognition.

"Are you Lilith?"

"This woman you see before you is Lilith – this woman usurping the title of Duchess," I responded. "The real Duchess is an unpolished jewel that appears as a stone, and not brass that appears as gold."

My stepmother turned on me – slapped me. "What do you mean by speaking these lies?"

"I mean that I can say as I like in my own house. You have ruled over me with your brutishness, but I rule over you in law. The Duke was my father and all his money mine – all the money you believed you had lost. It was not lost, but waiting for its right owner. I am its right owner, and I attended a ball to which I was invited. I am the Duchess, and you three are strays."

My stepmother's lip curled in spite and hatred. The prince smiled strangely.

"I will decide if you are a duchess after you try this slipper."

I took off my right shoe, and allowed him to put it on.

He looked at it. "A perfect fit."

Then, he looked at the shoe covering the other foot. "Not only that – a perfect match. I believe you are not a duchess after all."

I looked at him with mild surprise.

"I believe, my dear, that you are a princess."

If people really do die of horror, or scratch their own eyes out in frustration, I am surprised that my stepfamily did not do so then. And so I decided for myself that I would indeed be princess, and later queen. Apart from anything else, it gave me the opportunity to march from the room arm in arm with the prince, still in my servant clothes, and watch the horrified faces of my defeated dictators.

*

The fourth woman examined her audience, and found them all to be showing a smirk or a smile.

The second woman said, "But you can't expect us to believe you lived happily ever after."

The fourth woman actually laughed. "Of course I didn't, but it was fun whilst it lasted. Although years on, I began to suspect that a more satisfying revenge would have been watching them ruin themselves. As it was, I was tied by my marriage to the prince."

"Tied?" the third woman enquired.

"Yes. As we all know, romance and money are nice but do not make the man. I enjoyed it for the first couple of months – and then I was bored. Being bored was no awful thing compared to living with trollops, but it did give me a rather nasty empty feeling."

"That was when you learned magic?" the first woman asked.

"Indeed – and I happened to stumble upon a few true spells amidst the rubbish. I had wanted sisters and been let down. I needed people as lonely as I was, people who knew about the farce of royalty, the cruelty of family, people who understood love and understood the lack of it."

"And we are your sisters?" the third asked. They had called each other 'sister' back then.

"If I am yours. I wanted – needed – companions."

"So did I," the first said softly.

"I did too," added the second.

"I too," the third said. "But – hadn't we better finish this game?"

They played. The fourth said softly, "I found a spell which brought in people from all over time suffering from the same emptiness as I. From former sadnesses, from loneliness – enough to play our game, and then enchanting our stories into the pieces…"

"Better stories," the first interjected. "We hoped they'd make us better."

"Oh, they made us better," said the third, sardonically. "They gave us immortality – as shadows. So we still had each other – because we were the only ones who understood."

"Even though we started to dislike each other," reminded the second.

"I am sad about that," the fourth said. "But today is the day for new beginnings…"

"It is indeed, sister." The first woman smiled – her obvious gesture evoked smiles from the other two.

At last, the fourth woman put down the last piece. "I win," she said simply.

"And now what?" asked the first.

"Now, my friends, I tell you the last and final story. When we told our original stories, and let them be passed down through generations like other folk stories, I chose the pieces we would use to seal them, in our endless little game with immortality. I chose clay, because at the time I liked clay and the pieces themselves looked immortal. The original stories were pleasant and fulfilling, but we all knew they were barely true, except for the fact that they featured ourselves – or better versions of ourselves. I understood even before I knew that each of us had woes that had not been conquered by love or magic, and I decided I would hear everyone's story one day. There is only one way to become flesh and blood again, and that is to destroy the magic, and to destroy the magic we must destroy the pieces."

"But the clay pieces crumbled to dust," the second said. "Look." Where the clay pieces had been, there was nothing.

"The pieces can look however I choose them to look," the fourth said. "The crystal set was merely symbolic."

"So we told our stories for nothing?" the first asked.

"My sisters, do not misunderstand me. It is not possible to become flesh and blood again where we are – if we destroy the pieces, we return from our entire journey into sub-reality – back to the lives we left behind."

"Shall we remember this life?" asked the third.

"I believe we shall, but I could not say," the fourth said. "I knew we were getting tired of this shadow life, but that is the only way out. I wanted everyone to consider what they would be going back to."

"So if we destroy our pieces," the first said, "we find ourselves back where we were before we met?"

"We do."

It was quiet for a long time, it seemed. Each was considering what had just been said.

"If you return, what would you do?" the fourth woman asked.

The first said, "I would return and comfort my father."

"Would you tell him that…?" the second began to ask, and the first shook her head.

"It would further break his heart. But I would be the best daughter I could be."

The second said, "I would care for my husband, and earn his love as a wife, not a beauty."

The third gazed into space. "I could search for him – I would not lock myself away but dedicate my life to finding him again."

"And would you like to do all that?" the fourth asked.

The first stood up. "It's not a matter of liking to," she said decidedly. "We've been running away for so long – hiding ourselves from the horrible truth. I have to face it – I cannot run any longer."

She picked up her pieces from the table. "My sisters, farewell."

"Farewell." Suddenly each one was embracing her – yet they had been bitter so long.

She dropped the pieces, and they cascaded onto the ground, shattering as only crystal can, and so the image of the woman seemed to shatter, and glitter, and then fade. She was gone.

The second woman looked at where her sister had been. "I too, long to do the same. Perhaps it is not wise, but I sense that it is right. I thank you each for your friendship, for giving an ear to my pain for so long." Then she too was embraced, and she too destroyed her crystal pieces.

The third and the fourth woman were the only ones left. They looked at each other. "You know that I long to go back," the third said. "I thank you for helping me see it – for giving me enough time to come to my senses and realise what I must do. Thank you, sister."

"And I thank you," the fourth said. "We all needed companionship – and we all gave it. I thank you for being my companion."

The third smiled and nodded. She took her pieces and let them tumble into a tinkling shower of shards. She, too, was gone.

The fourth looked at an empty table, and made her speech to no one in particular. "We helped first and then we hindered. Because they needed a sanctuary, not an escape route. A place to be comforted, not a place to hide. They were unhappy, and their only chance of true happiness was returning. I suppose we each have to live with our decisions.

"And what would I do, if I went back?" She laughed to herself. "What have I to go back to?"

The sun was rising. She would go – wander amongst people again, who never saw her, although they briefly felt her go by. It would be a little lonely without the others, but they were always complaining anyway. They were happier where they were. She could not help but feel pangs for them, but what did it matter? They had done what they thought best.

And so she picked up the remaining pieces, and stored them where she might find them. She wandered down the hill, to the town beneath. It was time to start seeing the world again. Ah, she was alone, but she still had the spell, and maybe she would find other girls who wanted immortality, and needed to feel apart for sometime. And before that – why she would go enjoy herself.

People never ceased to amaze her. She wandered further, to where there were crowds going about their business, and watched. Cinderella was a storyteller, and there were infinite stories to tell.

***


End file.
